My mother-in-law insists on running our household, and my husband stays silent. I can’t take it anymore.
Sometimes I look at myself from the outside and wonder how I ever let this happen—how I married a man who, at thirty, still lives in his mother’s shadow. His name is Edward—outwardly, he seems mature, responsible, independent. In reality? A complete mummy’s boy. The kind who wouldn’t blink without her approval.
We met through—who else?—his mum. I was working as a shop assistant when an older woman started visiting more often. She praised me, saying I felt like family. Then she brought her son along: “Eddie, have a look—she’s not just a girl, she’s an absolute gem!” And he fell for it. Started taking me out, wooing me. Next thing I knew—we were married.
His mother gave us the flat. She moved in with her elderly boyfriend, telling him, “Live here, save for your own place. I want grandchildren!” Kind words, but not without strings. Soon, she was back in our lives… with her cleaning supplies, pots, and rules.
Every Monday feels like déjà vu. I spend weekends scrubbing the place spotless, doing laundry, cooking. Then I come home—everything’s rewashed, re-ironed, rearranged. A note on the table: “Made shepherd’s pie, sorted the wardrobe, mopped floors, changed the sheets. Love you.” Polite, but it makes my hands shake. Is this my home or hers?
I told Edward I can’t take it anymore. He brushed me off: “She’s just trying to help! She does it from the heart!” As if I should be grateful—fewer chores. But her “help” strips me of any authority in my own home. She even washes my underwear! Rifles through drawers, moves my things. Privacy doesn’t exist.
The worst part? She doesn’t do this at her place. We visited once—clean, but not obsessive. In our flat? Everything’s measured to the millimetre. A stranger in my home, and I can’t say a word. Because, as my own mother reminded me, “The flat’s technically hers. Put up with it until you buy your own.”
But how? Day after day, I feel pushed out of my own role. I’m not saying she’s wicked. But she has this suffocating need to control. To her, we’re not independent—just her little boy and his wife, needing instructions.
And Edward? He refuses to set boundaries. He’s fine with it. Calls it “a sweet deal.” I feel like an outsider in this house. He doesn’t see how much it hurts. Or won’t.
When she declares, “I want grandchildren. Once they’re here, I’ll visit more, babysit, help,” I panic. Because I know—she won’t “help.” She’ll move in. Dictate nap times, meals, rules. I’m drowning already; with kids, I’d break.
Last week, I gave Edward an ultimatum: either he talks to his mother, or I will. Doesn’t matter whose flat it is. She gave it to us to live in—that doesn’t mean she owns us. I’m not a vase to be rearranged. I’m his wife, the woman of this house, and I deserve respect. Even if the house isn’t technically mine.
